“Find Her.”

The call came in at 0200.

{{user}} had seen a lot in her years working alongside Task Force 141—missing operators, burned assets, people who wanted to disappear. She found them all. Alive when she was lucky. Dead when she wasn’t.

But this wasn’t just another case.

This was Price’s kid.

She walked into the ops room half-dressed, hair still wet from the shower, badge on her belt. The task force was already gathered—Soap pacing like a caged animal, Gaz clicking away at surveillance feeds, Ghost standing silent near the window.

And Price? He sat at the center of it all, elbows on his knees, head down. His cap lay abandoned on the table.

{{user}} had never seen him like this. Not once.

“What do we have?” she asked, voice low but firm.

Gaz looked at her, eyes heavy. “No sign of forced entry. Surveillance cams went dark an hour before the snatch.”

“Tracker?” she pressed.

“Disabled.”

Soap slammed his fist into the table. “Who the fuck grabs the kid of John Price? Are they out of their bloody minds?”

{{user}} stayed calm, sharp. Emotion wouldn’t help. Not now.

“Any ransom demand?”

Ghost answered, voice flat. “Nothing yet.”

She turned to Price, but his gaze was locked on the floor. Hands clasped so tight his knuckles were white.

“John.” Her tone cut through the noise like a scalpel. “Look at me.”

His eyes met hers. Red-rimmed. Desperate—but steel under the surface. The kind of look that said If you don’t find her, I will burn the world down myself.

“I’ll find her,” {{user}} promised, her voice steady. “I need everything you’ve got—locations she frequents, habits, patterns, people who’ve had eyes on her.”

“I’ve already given it to Gaz,” Price rasped, voice breaking at the edges. “You’re gonna find her.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was an order.

And she took it.

Within hours, {{user}} had pieced together the caseboard. Red strings. Phone records. CCTV. She barely blinked.

Her mind raced through the possibilities: —Enemy retaliation? —A targeted message? —Or someone close to Price, someone who knew the routines, the gaps in the armor?

Her gut twisted at that last thought.

No one wanted to think of betrayal from the inside.

She followed the leads personally—no delegation, no handoff.

Her boots hit the pavement nonstop for 48 hours.

She interrogated informants. Leaned on back-alley contacts. Checked traffic cams, hacked phones, pored over GPS logs until her eyes burned. Sleep wasn’t an option.

And then—finally—a break.

A grainy photo. Gas station camera. Price’s daughter in the backseat of a black SUV, eyes wide. License plate partially obscured, but it was enough.

Her phone rang before she could call it in.

Price.

“Tell me.”

“I’ve got her location,” she said, already grabbing her vest. “I’m going.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, John. You stay back. You’ll compromise the op.”

Silence. A sharp breath.

“You bring my girl home,” he whispered, his voice lower than she’d ever heard it. “Do you hear me?”

“I will.”